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She shook her head again.
“You do know who the father is?” Doctor Angelo asked calmly.
“Of course I do, sir.” Cassandra intoned firmly, sounding every bit as to the manor born as she literally was.
“However, I just realised, I had three alcoholic drinks a little over a week ago. I don’t ever drink, but I ... I did that night. I had no idea then that I might be pregnant.”
He waved his hand in the air. “That’s not likely to cause a problem. Don’t drink again, but don’t worry about a one off. Stress is worse for the baby. Lots of women don’t realise they’re pregnant and have a wine or two before they find out.”
“I almost can’t believe it.” She whispered.
He smiled and nodded. “That’s not an uncommon reaction.” He reached down below his desk and pulled out two square pieces of shiny paper and handed them to her. “Here’s your baby.”
She stared at the grainy pictures where, unmistakably, a bean shaped little blob looked to be reclining in a hammock. And her heart swelled at the sight. “My baby.” She whispered. “My baby.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Sydney might feel like any other modern, high tech city in the world, but it was a fair leap from pretty much everywhere else, and it had taken Benedict the better part of twenty fours to find the address he’d set out to find.
The minute he’d heard the urgency in Katherine Kline’s voice, he’d known she held the answers. Instincts. Gut feeling. Whatever you wanted to call it, Benedict trusted beyond doubt that this woman, Nanny Kline, could tell him the last piece of the Cassandra Hervey puzzle.
Why it had become so imperative to him to get to the bottom of Cassandra’s motives was obvious. He was desperate to clear her name so that he could let himself admit how much he loved her. But it was most likely futile. What was that old expression about silk purses?
It wasn’t enough to lust after someone. Nor even to love them. Trust was essential, and whatever Nanny Kline was able to reveal to him, it wouldn’t change the fact that Cassandra had lied for years. It wouldn’t change the fact that she’d hurt people. Peter. Alyssia. Him. She’d accused him of letting her fall in love with him. Well, she’d done just the same to him.
His handsome face was unknowingly severe as he knocked on the door of the small but tidy east London semi-detached home.
A woman, younger than he’d expected, in her forties perhaps, opened the door almost immediately. Her pale face was lined, her dark olive eyes were bleak, and her thin lips turned down at the corners. “Katherine Kline?” He asked, extending a hand.
“Benedict Savarin.” She acknowledged, shaking his hand with strength. “Come in.”
She led him into the hallway, and despite everything being small and simple, it was a nicely maintained house, obviously a home that was the centre of a family’s life.
There were drawings taped to the fridge, photographs above the mantelpiece. It was ... homely. “Thank you for seeing me.” He inclined his head to hide the burning need he knew would be expressed by his eyes.
“It’s I who should be thanking you.” She said tensely. “Tea? Coffee?”
He nodded. Though he was being eaten alive by a worm of impatience, he had to go through the motions. Katherine Kline was as skittish as she was highly strung, and he knew she could scare easily. Without knowing the exact nature of her revelations, he didn’t want to risk that she might turn him away before disclosing this secret.
“You were Cassandra’s nanny.” He said, when she’d made them a pot of tea and handed him a dainty cup.
His dark fingers curled around it and he sipped. He’d never really acquired a taste for tea, though he’d tried to partake in the herbal variety when Cassandra had stayed over.
“Yes.” Her eyes sparked. “She just vanished into thin air a few years ago.” Her voice cracked. “I’ve tried to get in touch with her, but... she really did vanish.”
Benedict’s mouth twisted in disapproval. Another victim of Cassandra’s carelessness.
“You would know better than anyone why she left,” he said drily, hoping against hope he hadn’t made a colossal error in coming here. Could this woman truly shed any light? Or had his desire for Cassandra, and his hope that she wasn’t such a rotten apple, made him do something completely out of character. He’d put hope ahead of reason. Faith ahead of Logic.
“Oh, I know why she left alright. How do I know you’re not from the press?”
“You know who I am, surely.” He remarked.
“I’ve heard of you, but I don’t know I can trust you.”
It seemed to be the word of the day.
“You and I both love Cassandra,” he surmised, and felt his heart swell as he spoke the words aloud for the first time. Like he’d set himself free by admitting as much.
